With them for many a year abode The youth, and learned their tongue; And with the sound of Christian praise The hills and valleys rung. Oh beautiful beyond all lands That lay beneath the moon, Was that fair isle of Christian love Of Christian virtues boon. A joyful people there they dwelt, Unsuffering from their birth; Of simplest life; benignly wise; As angels on the earth. And with them dwelt the holy youth, Their chief, their priest, their friend, Beloved and loving, for their sakes Willing himself to spend. Like to some ancient church of Christ, From worldly taint kept free, Lay this delicious isle of love Amid its summer sea. But now the work he had to do Was done; and ere his day Approached its noon, his strength, his life, Was wearing fast away. They saw his cheek grow thin and pale; His loving eye grow dim; And with surpassing tenderness They sorrowed over him. Old men, and youths, and women meek, And children wild and young, Followed his steps with watchful care, And weeping round him hung. In flowery thickets of the hills Sad mourners knelt in prayer, That God this servant so revered, This friend beloved would spare. And round about his feet they sat, Observant, meek, and still, To gather up his latest words, To do his slightest will. Now all this while good Marien Had wandered far and wide, Through divers realms, for many a year, The hand of Heaven her guide. And now unto the glorious isle She came; but on the shore She saw no wandering company, As she had seen before. ’Twas Sabbath eve, and o’er the isle A solemn stillness lay; A stillness, how unlike the calm Of many a Sabbath day; A hush, as of suspended breath, Ere some great grief began; For the mournful people silently Stood round the dying man. Through the still vales went Marien, And came at length to where, ’Mid flowering trees, knelt many a one In agony of prayer. Onward she went, not many steps, With heart of mournful ruth, When, like a dying angel laid, She saw the holy youth. With closed eyes and pallid lips He lay, as one whose life Meeteth with death, yet waiteth still The last conflicting strife. Beside him knelt she on the turf, And spoke in accents low Words of strong love, which like new life Seemed through the frame to go. He raised himself, and blessing God, That He of him had care, And now in his dark trial-hour, Had sent his angel there; With low-toned voice, more musical Than softest lute could make, Looking upon his weeping friends With fervent love, he spake.